


Please Don't Ask Me

by babywarg (morphaileffect)



Series: DrPepperony Prompts and Fics [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cute Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), F/M, Inspired by Music, M/M, Other, Parent Pepper Potts, Parent Stephen Strange, Parent Tony Stark, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 02:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphaileffect/pseuds/babywarg
Summary: Morgan learns that Papa Stephen knows how to play the piano. She, her mom and her dad all encourage him to play something for them.





	Please Don't Ask Me

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt by ravennightbirt on Tumblr: "piano (Because playing the piano is mostly mostly memory and I knew someone who has problems with his hands and is still playing the piano) Stephen is home alone with morgan and she is asking him to play for her. At first he is nervous but he does it, reluctantly. When he starts playing it is slow and faulty. (I think about Beethoven or Mozart or Bach, because its Stephen and thos three are a pain in the ass) Part 1
> 
> "Part 2: But then Morgan distracts him and after a little moment he understands that he is playing perfectly. When Pepper and Tony return home, there is classic piano music and in the living room are Stephen and Morgan on the piano and Stephen is crying happy tears. And for the rest of the day Tony and Stephen are playing, while Pepper and Morgan are curled up in the sofa."
> 
> The ask itself made for a wonderful fic, and nothing I could write could do it justice. However, it inspired me to work on something short.
> 
> At the time of writing, I was listening to [this cheesy 80s ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nRHt6VXjaU), which ended up getting written in. Imagine it, if you will, played soft and slow, and sung in Benedict’s luscious baritone.

There was a piano in the house, but no one knew how to play it.

Tony bought a baby grand just because his mother used to play a grand piano in the house where he grew up; he was hoping Morgan would learn to play the piano, too, someday.

Sometimes, when Happy or Rhodey came by, there would be live music in the house. But their knowledge of piano was limited to basics, and “live music” often meant either “Chopsticks” or “The Entertainer” (the former of which six-year-old Morgan already knew how to play).

And sometimes, when Tony was in a petulant mood, he would bang away on the keys rhythmically and Morgan would bounce around in proximity. He would call what he did “piano playing” and Morgan would call what she did “dancing.”

And no matter what might have been bothering the two of them before, the piano would make them feel better.

They loved that piano. Even if no one in the house actually knew how to play it.

So when Morgan’s parents learned that her Papa Stephen did, they were over the moon.

“Play something for us,” Pepper pleaded.

“I haven’t played in years,” was how Stephen tried to beg off from it. “My hands aren’t what they used to be…”

“Something simple, then,” Tony insisted. “Like a pop song. Anything.”

“Hmm,” Stephen mused aloud, “I used to be able to do Rachmaninoff. But these days, I think I can manage Farnham…”

“Farnham?” Out of habit, Tony looked over at his wife-slash-classical art curator. Pepper shrugged, brow furrowed.

“John Farnham? You don’t know him?” The mild sarcasm in Stephen’s voice was lost on all the other people in the room. “Well, let me introduce you.”

“Are you going to sing?” Morgan eagerly asked. “I hope you sing, Papa. I like when you sing.”

She sounded so excited. And her excitement was mirrored in her parents’ eyes.

“Why, yes, I am going to sing,” Stephen replied, then joked: “And if the rain starts falling, you’ll know whose fault it is.” *

The truth was, he was confident of his singing voice. Especially since Tony had said he loved it, not too long ago.

Still, Stephen couldn’t help but feel a little nervous…even if it really was a simple song, one he could play with his eyes closed. It was one of the first songs he’d learned to play by ear, and he’d played it over and over, back in the house where he grew up.

These were the people he loved. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

And at the same time, he felt that only not playing would disappoint them. They would love anything, as long as it came from him.

Cushioned by this feeling, his reluctant hands struck the first few chords.

_Please don’t ask me what am I thinking_

_It’s about you_

_And please don’t ask me I never can see you_

_What can I do?_

Even if his rhythm was slightly off, and his voice shook, and his fingers stumbled over a few of the notes, his audience was mesmerized, so he couldn’t be doing too badly.

Halfway through the song, Tony sat beside him on the piano bench, but didn’t interfere with his playing. Stephen felt Tony’s comforting closeness keenly, felt as if his hands took strength from it.

And Pepper moved to stand behind him, lay a hand lightly on his shoulder. Then he felt his hands settling into familiar patterns, remembering how to move.

And when the song was over, his reward was the sight of three lovely faces glowing with admiration and pride.

“I like that song,” Morgan said with the sweetest smile.

Stephen returned that smile. “I’m glad you do. It’s a very special song to me.”

“It’s a sad song,” Pepper remarked. “It must have come at a sad time for you.”

Stephen brought his fingers up to touch the back of Pepper’s hand on his shoulder.

Tony took one of his hands and held it.

When Stephen thought about it, it was true: the song only came with sad memories for him. His childhood. Losing family. Selling off the piano in his apartment in New York. Leaving. Believing his feelings weren’t returned.

It had been a very long, very sad time.

“It did,” he breathed, “but it’s over now.”

He could say it to himself freely in this house filled with love and joy, this warm place where he belonged:

Only the song remained. The muscle memory of sadness and being alone.

**Author's Note:**

> * (It’s a joke around these parts, that bad singing causes rain. I’m not sure how well-known it is, so I’m explaining the joke 😅 )


End file.
